The Gateway to Hell: A Mike Shannon Novel

By Ray Mileur

Mike Shannon is used to taking on the hard cases. Hes a private investigator and ex-cop in St. Louis, and when the authorities throw up their hands, Shannon is there to bring the guilty to justice. But doing whats right doesnt mean keeping your hands clean: hes stacked up quite a body count over the yearssomething hes not proud ofand its beginning to take its toll on him.

When a teenage girl goes missing, Shannon takes what he believes will be a simple case. But when he finds cocaine hidden in the girls bedroomcocaine that apparently came from the police departments evidence roomthings begin to get complicated. Things get even worse when Shannon begins to suspect his own ex-partner, who was brutally murdered, may be linked to the girls disappearance and the stolen drugs.

Shannons investigation of a possible runaway is shaping up into one hell of a case against police corruption and drug trafficking. As Shannon digs deeper, the danger escalates when he comes face to face with a dark figure from his past, a rogue CIA hitman known as the Sandman. Shannon might be in over his head, but thats never stopped him before. In all the confusion, Shannon is sure of one thing, hes not done killing yet.

As Shannons past catches up with him, his two worlds collide and the dead bodies begin to litter the streets of St. Louis, with a trail of blood leading downtown to the Arch, The Gateway to Hell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475900798

Ray Mileur

Ray Mileur is a private investigator, ex-Marine, and former police chief. Many of the characters in his Mike Shannon series are drawn from his own case files. He lives with his wife, Anne, on their country estate, Lone Star Acres, in southern Illinois.

Book preview

Chapter 1

They wanted him dead.

He heaved a deep sigh. It was almost dawn, and the muted darkness was eerily quiet. Mike Shannon, the private investigator who had made a career of taking cases the St. Louis Police Department couldn’t-or-wouldn’t take, stood alone on the balcony of his loft apartment overlooking the river, wearing only his white cotton boxers. His cover had been blown. He held a cold can of Dr. Pepper in his left hand and a Springfield Armory XD .45 in his right, half expecting to take a sniper’s bullet in the chest.

He carefully scanned the neighborhood below. Last night’s horde of tourists and locals had deserted Laclede’s Landing. A couple of cars and delivery trucks dashed across the Martin Luther King Bridge into the city, ahead of the rush hour traffic. The small grey squirrel he fed in winter was making its early morning rounds, jumping through the trees that lined the narrow cobblestone streets.

The slight odor of stale beer from Big Daddy’s bar, and garlic from the Spaghetti Factory, permeated the heavy, humid air. In the background, the tireless movement of the Mississippi River passed under the massive cantilever truss bridge. It was quiet, except for the serene hum of three ceiling fans and the ticking of an antique wall clock coming from inside his apartment.

Shannon was a highly decorated Marine Corps veteran and a member of an off-the-books paramilitary unit with tenuous ties to the Central Intelligence Agency. After two tours with the Marines, he had served eleven years with the St. Louis Police Department as a tough and uncompromising street-wise cop. Newspaper headlines often recorded his exploits and he became one of the most decorated police officers in the city’s history.

He glanced at his watch. Forty-eight hours ago he had led his black ops team, Sabre 6, and successfully rescued the daughter of a U.S. ambassador from the hands of what was left of the Escobar drug cartel in Columbia, South America. In the name of God and Country, he had fought in unconstitutional wars, carried out clandestine commando missions, participated in the never-ending, futile war on drugs, and the misguided war on terror. He had killed more men then he cared to remember. Their ghosts haunted him. His unwanted memories fueled his relentless pursuit for redemption.

He had often tested fate and usually took danger in stride without apparent concern for his own well-being, but he harbored no illusions of his own invincibility. He had just walked away, virtually unscathed, from another deadly gunfight, and it was beginning to weigh on his mind that his time could be running out. He was conscious of his own brutality. He wondered how long could he could fight monsters before he became one? Each time he took someone’s life, he felt a piece of himself die.

He could hear the rumble of the distant thunder and a sense of dread washed over him. He knew they were coming for him. He was living on borrowed time, but he’d be ready for them. He was experienced at war and experienced at killing; it’s what he did, it’s who he was.

Chapter 2

He parked the stolen black Cadillac Seville at the airport, in long-term parking. It would be days, or even weeks, before the cops would discover the body in the trunk.

In the terminal, Anthony Tony Morreti, aka the Sandman, the most prolific contract hitman of his time, passed undetected through the TSA checkpoints at LaGuardia. The elite, lone-wolf assassin, known for his lethal grace and unwavering precision, looked like any other businessman boarding the early flight to St. Louis. Morreti’s business was murder and business was good.

Morreti was a second generation Italian American. He stood 6’2" and weighed 200 pounds, all of it lean muscle. He had a full head of coal black hair, dark olive skin, and piercing gunmetal-colored eyes. He was dressed to kill in a tailored black Armani suit and wore a solid gold Rolex President, and the obligatory mobster pinky ring. For over a year now, he had moved like a cat through the concrete jungle of New York City; a predator stalking human prey.

Morreti began his bloody career as a young Marine Corps sniper; a big-game hunter on the battlefield. He had often penetrated deeply into enemy territory, waiting for the right moment to take the killing shot with a single bullet. The CIA had recruited Morreti, and his platoon sergeant, to carry out covert paramilitary operations in central America and the middle east, assigning them both to the Special Operations Group within the Special Activities Division of the Company.

On the record, Presidential Executive Order 12333, issued by President Ronald Reagan in 1981, prohibited the CIA from conducting assassinations. But, off the record—before he left the reservation to go into business for himself—Morreti’s body count for Uncle Sam had soared past forty.

A buxom, blond forty-something flight attendant with American Airline wings on her blouse, greeted Morreti at the door of the Boeing 747. Good morning, she said. Welcome aboard flight 624 to St. Louis.

Good morning, Morreti replied as he took his seat in the front row of the first class section.

Morreti always travelled first class. He was fond of great Italian food, fine wines, custom tailored suits, fast cars, and faster women. He stayed in the best hotels and ate in the finest restaurants, and passed the costs of his extravagant lifestyle to his desperately motivated clients. By his own estimate, without any reservation or remorse, he had killed over 100 men, making him a much sought-after specialist in the underworld. He was the perfect ice-cold killing machine, taking great pride in his work. And the money was very good.

Once they were in the air, the flight attendant served a complimentary breakfast. He ate, sitting quietly for the rest of the flight, reading a newspaper he had purchased at the airport and leafing through the in-flight magazines.

Despite his storied background, the police had never linked Morreti to any of his free-lance killings. On this assignment he would fly in and out of St. Louis without being detected, leaving behind one dead cop. If everything went according to plan.

It always did.

Chapter 3

Shannon’s loft apartment was accessible by an open-grillwork freight elevator, which had a single slab-opening door and a wrought iron stairway in the back that served as a fire escape. The apartment featured a large open living room and kitchen combination with fifteen-foot ceilings, four large skylights, arched cast-iron framed windows, and worn chestnut wood flooring.

The living room was furnished with a group of heavy antiques and a large bomber-jacket microfiber sofa and recliner, giving the room the comfortable feeling of old-fashioned luxury. On one end of the room, the home entertainment center held a big screen TV. A couple of Georgia O’Keefe prints were displayed on the exposed brick walls. His grandfather and great-grandfather’s shotguns hung above the mantle over the fireplace.

The kitchen contained the latest appliances, including a stainless steel fridge and an impressive state-of-the art range that he used only to prepare chips and dip.

Shannon strolled through the living room and picked up the cell phone off the kitchen counter. This is Shannon, he said as he walked down the hallway to the bathroom.

Mike, this is Jackie, are you home?

I got in late last night.

Have you seen the news on TV?

I’ve seen it, Shannon moaned.

They’re making you out to be a hero.

You can’t believe everything you see on TV.

I can believe the hero part, she replied. I thought you would be excited about the free publicity.

I’m not, Shannon said, knowing the trouble that was coming his way. It comes with a price.

I don’t understand.

I don’t expect you to.

She took a deep breath. What do you want us to do?

Call Chili and J.T.. Have them meet us at the office at eight. Tell them to expect the local media to be camped out in front. Have them park in the garage and slip in the back entrance.

Okay Mike, anything else?

No one is to make any comments to the press.

Okay.

I’ve got to go take a shower and unpack.

Mike.

What?

Is it true what they are saying about you? Did you really kill all those men?

We’ll talk about it later, kid, Shannon said.

She thought his voice sounded tired and weak. Okay.

Shannon laid the cell phone on the bathroom sink. He peeled off his skivvies and tossed them on the floor, and took another drink of his Dr. Pepper. The soda was the only bad habit he had; at least the only one he could admit to in public. He turned on the hot water in the shower and let it run for a couple of minutes before he stepped in.

He was on the backside of forty, crowding the big five-oh, and the excessive wear and tear on his six-foot, two-hundred-pound frame was beginning to show. He often thought that the warranty on his body had expired after he hit forty.

Shannon lingered in the shower, letting the cascade of steaming water gently massage his aching and battered body. He noticed a deep purple contusion on his left shoulder and couldn’t remember how he had hurt it. He brushed his teeth, filled his mouth with water from the shower head, swirled it around, and spit it out.

Shannon reached down and turned off the shower. He stepped out of the stall and dried himself with a large, thick white towel. He carefully patted the purple bruises on his chest, courtesy of two 9MM slugs, that were stopped by his Second Chance ballistic vest, during the rescue of the Ambassador’s daughter. He wrapped the damp towel around his waist as he glanced at the small clock radio on the counter. He had lost track of time. He been in the shower for over thirty minutes. The older he got, the longer and hotter the showers had become. He grabbed a hand towel hanging on the rack next to the sink and wiped the steam from the mirror.

As he reached for his razor, he glanced at his reflection. He saw the scars on his body that testified to the violence that he had endured; and a face hardened by life, lined with pain and sorrow; battered eyebrows, scarred in countless forgotten brawls. The eyes that stared back at him had seen too much violence and too much death. But he knew that there was more to come.

Shannon shaved and applied Old Spice sport stick deodorant under his arms and added a touch of Lagerfeld cologne to his face. The bottle of cologne was almost empty. She had given it to him last Christmas, before the divorce. It was her favorite scent. He still wore it for her every day, as if it mattered anymore.

He took a bottle of Advil out of the medicine cabinet and washed four of them down with what was now a warm, almost flat Dr. Pepper.

Shannon ambled down the hall to the bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the hardwood floor. He grabbed a pair of clean underwear from the top dresser drawer, put them on, turned around, and began to unpack his bags.

After he unpacked, he returned to the kitchen. The pantry served as his arms room. He opened the door and took out his handgun cleaning kit, and placed a green felt pad over the round oak dining room table that had been in his family for more than 75 years.

In Marine Corps basic training, at Parris Island, his DIs had drilled into him that poor weapon maintenance was a common cause of misfires. More than once, Shannon had lived to fight another day because some poor dumb bastard had failed to clean his weapon properly. The Springfield Armory XD .45 was Shannon’s weapon of choice; it was a black matte polymer, double action semi-automatic, with a 13 round magazine. He carried it religiously.

He removed the magazine from the .45, cleared the round from the chamber, double-checked the chamber, and pulled the trigger back. Then he pointed the weapon toward the brick wall, removed the slide from the receiver, and removed the barrel from the slide. He carefully and meticulously cleaned the weapon inside and out. When he had finished cleaning his weapon, he washed his hands and put the cleaning kit back in the pantry.

He walked back to the bedroom. The king-size bed in the middle of the room seemed bigger now that she was gone. But now, he mused, he had the walk-in closet all to himself; it beat living out of his Marine Corps sea bag.

Shannon dressed in his usual business attire; a starched white shirt, open at the neck, tucked into his khaki slacks. He slid on a pair of brown, handcrafted, ostrich Justin cowboy boots, and put on a matching brown belt. He slipped on his holster, a double magazine pouch, and a pancake holder with a pair of handcuffs and a small flashlight. He grabbed a blue blazer from the closet and put it on, and from the top of the dresser, he picked up the brown leather ID folder with his PI license and put it inside his jacket pocket. Then he grabbed his Ray Ban aviator sunglasses.

Shannon returned to the dining room table. He reassembled the .45, loaded a hollow-point round in the chamber, and inserted a fully loaded 13-round magazine. He placed the weapon in its brown Bianchi holster on his right hip, and stuffed two additional magazines in the leather pouch on his left hip.

Shannon paused in front of the full-length mirror in the hall next to the ancient freight elevator. He inspected himself and adjusted his gig line. Even on the backside of forty, he still projected the aura of a man not to be trifled with.

He coughed lightly and his face twitched with pain. He shook his head.

This is as good as it gets, he said to himself.

Chapter 4

Shannon hit the button with his right thumb and took the freight elevator down to his office on the ground floor.

Walking through the frosted front door, painted with a sign that read MIKE SHANNON, PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS, was like stepping into a perfectly preserved time capsule from the early 1900s. The fifteen-foot brick walls, with their original nine-foot arched windows, open oak ceiling beams, and wood plank floors, all showed their age; a stark contrast to the boring modern architecture and interiors found in the downtown area.

The casual observer rarely noticed the state-of-the-art security system that Shannon had installed when he bought the place. The system included several hidden cameras, both inside and out, with motion sensor detectors and lights for protection. Shannon still had plenty of friends on the job, ensuring a rapid response for any breach in security.

Adorning the brick walls in the small reception area were four custom-framed prints by Georgia O’Keefe. Shannon loved the turn-of-the-century artist for her distinctive paintings of flowers, animal bones, and landscapes, in which she synthesized abstraction and representation.

Art critics and writers often claimed that Georgia O’Keefe was born ahead of her time. Shannon, who longed for a time when life made more sense, always felt that he was born 100 years too late. He was a hopeless romantic, and thought that if he and Georgia could bridge the gap of time, they would be perfect soul mates.

An old handrail separated the reception area and the secretary’s office. Shannon had salvaged the antique 36-inch oak banister from the historic Marion County courthouse in Hannibal Missouri, the boyhood home town of Mark Twain. There were four 1920s banker-style chairs lined against the outer wall of the reception room. Past the handrail, into the front office area, stood Jackie Chase’s vintage oak library desk with a computer work-station, a copier, and a fax machine. Her desk and work area was clean and tidy, a stark contrast to Shannon’s own cluttered office.

Shannon’s private office was down the hall, the first door on the left. It featured an ornate Persian rug that he’d brought back from one of his overseas missions. Various mementos from past cases were on display on the sleek mahogany desk and in his bookcases.

Further down the hall, past Shannon’s office, was the break room containing four chairs drawn up to a round table. A microwave, blender, toaster, and coffeemaker were sitting on the Formica counter top. A new refrigerator stocked with Dr. Pepper and unidentifiable leftovers, sat in the corner. There were two more offices in the back. One was a combination conference and library room. Shannon’s associates, J.T. Thomas and Willie Chili Brown, shared the other office.

Shannon walked into his office and sat down in his high-back leather executive chair. He put his feet up on the desk, grabbed a stack of St. Louis Globe-Democrat newspapers and scanned the headlines, to catch up on the local news.

Halfway through the second back issue of the Globe, he glanced at his inbox, which was filled with two weeks of mail. On top of the stack was this month’s copy of P.I. Magazine. The publication had featured Shannon in its December issue, which had prompted him to sign up for a three-year subscription. He decided the inbox could wait until he finished reading the papers.

In the sports section, he read that the St. Louis Cardinals were two games ahead of the Chicago Cubs in the standings and looking for their 12th World Championship. Shannon smiled. His father, Joseph Shannon, had been a St. Louis Police Officer who always loved to tell the story about the day his son was born. The elder Shannon had been working at the old Sportsman Park Stadium during game one of the 1964 World Series. The New York Yankees sent future hall of famer Whitey Ford to the mound for what would be his final World Series appearance. The Bronx Bombers were leading the Cardinals 4-2 after five and a half innings. In the sixth inning, the Cardinals sent eight players to the plate, including Mike Shannon. Shannon came up to bat, looking for a slider, and got one. He hammered it 500 feet deep into the stands, driving in two runs. The Cardinals would go on to win the game and eventually the World Series, for the first time since 1946.

In the seventh inning of the same game, Joe Shannon got a call from police dispatch that his wife had gone into labor and was at St Anthony’s hospital. Joe rushed to the hospital in his squad car with red lights and sirens blaring, arriving in time to see his first child born. Still coming off the emotional high of seeing Mike Shannon’s mammoth World Series home run, he christened his first son Michael.

Shannon turned around and grabbed a Dr. Pepper from the built in, mini-office fridge in the credenza behind his desk. He popped the tab on the can, took a drink, then opened the top right drawer of the desk, picked up the TV remote, and clicked on Channel 3 News. The lead story today was the rescue of the ambassador’s daughter by Shannon’s team.

Someone at Langley, or in Washington, had betrayed him. The fallout from the leak of his identity continued as major newspapers across the country gave the story more ink than a Kim Kardashian wedding. The media feeding frenzy had given Shannon his fifteen minutes of fame, fifteen minutes more than he wanted.

Shannon reached inside the other end of the credenza, opened a secret compartment in the bottom, and grabbed the government issued, secure satellite phone. He pressed on the red power button, entered his pin and waited a minute for the satellite registration. Then he called in.

Brewster, Jennings and Associates, she answered. How may I help you?

This is Shannon, code 4592.

One moment please, she said, as she placed him on hold.

Shannon heard a familiar male voice belonging to Mr. Cannon, Sabre 6’s mission controller. Shannon, are you okay?

I’m still alive, if that’s what you mean.

Where are you?

I’m in St. Louis. What the hell is going on? Shannon demanded. I’m flying over Texas, on the way home, and I see my mug shot coming across CNN, linking me to the rescue.

We are still trying to track down the source of the leak at this end.

How about my team, have they been exposed?

So far, it appears that only your cover has been blown.

There was a moment of silence before Shannon continued, What can you tell me about this one million dollar bounty on my head?

Not much, Cannon answered. According to our sources, the hit was posted by Carlos Escobar sometime within the last 48 hours, and it has been sanctioned here in the States by Carmine ’Junior’ Galante.

Junior’s uncle, and his namesake, Carmine ‘the Cigar" Galante, had been the boss of the Bonanno crime family in the 1970s. Now, Junior was intent on making his own mark with the mob.

A million dollars?

That’s walk around money for Carlos.

Doesn’t sound like Escobar, Shannon said. If he wanted me dead, he’d do it himself or send one of his own people. I can’t see him farming it out, or advertising it.

True, if you were still in Columbia, but now that you’re back in the States, he’s going to outsource the hit.

Any ideas?

We have word that Escobar is cooking up a deal with Galante. Killing you may be part of it.

Any idea who? Shannon asked.

New York mob street soldiers, Johnny Branco and Vinnie Zambrano, arrived in St. Louis yesterday on American flight 411. They are both bad news. You need to watch your six.

This is messed up, Shannon said.

Take my advice, go underground, Cannon suggested. We can help you with that.

I’m not going underground, Shannon said.

Then, there’s something else you need to know.

What? Shannon asked.

Morreti.

The Sandman?

We’ve been keeping tabs on him since he left the reservation.

How does this guy keep walking the streets?

I don’t know, he must be carrying a get-out-of-jail free card, Cannon answered.

Morreti, Branco and Zambrano…three hitmen for one guy? That’s a little overkill don’t you think?

You’re a dangerous man.

What do you have on Morreti? Shannon asked.

This morning he boarded an early flight from New York to St. Louis. He should be arriving at Lambert in the next few minutes.

And you think he’s coming for me? Shannon asked.

I think he’s coming for the million dollars.

Chapter 5

Morreti woke up as the plane began its decent from thirty-thousand feet into St. Louis. The plane flew over the Mississippi River and the Gateway Arch, turned and continued its decent to the west over the St. Charles River before it made a wide u-turn at twelve-hundred feet. At five-hundred feet, the pilot made his final approach to the airport and lowered the landing gear. Moments later, at one-hundred and seventy miles-per-hour, the plane’s wheels screeched and smoked as they hit the black asphalt. The roar of jet engines screamed in reverse thrust as the plane bounced, then rolled along the runway.

Let me be the first to welcome you to St. Louis, the flight